Kyrie
by Harukami
Summary: Ildon is called to duty with the Charm Lord and Rastaban exchanges words with Zozma. Set long long before the game, but after Zozma has left the Charm Lord's retinue.


Kyrie - by Harukami  
  
"And Ildon... I would exchange words with you." Orlouge had smiled and Ildon had bowed, said his prefunctory 'Yes, Lord', and trailed off behind Orlouge, two steps back and one to the left as they headed for Orlouge's private chambers.  
  
Times like this, hate wells inside me black and fierce. I stand in the middle of Ildon's training arena. Up close, the design on the floor is just colour; only far away does it look like a rose. The arena can only be reached by stairs -- it hangs in the air, as do most places in the Chateau. Orlouge modeled it, I believe, after climbing roses. Yet there are no trellises for these roses -- it is fragile, the vines are small, and one misstep could send one plummetting from the stairs.   
  
Roses can only climb so high on their own, before they need support.  
  
It is cold up here, though I do not normally feel the chill. Ildon spends whole days here, sometimes, lost in his swordplay. Sometimes I watch. I wonder if he ever stops and stands in the middle, as I do now, and feels the cold.  
  
Somehow I doubt it.  
  
"It would be better if he were angry," I say aloud.  
  
"Who?"   
  
I start and turn, but it's only Zozma. "You were not here," I tell him. "And never saw me."  
  
"Of course not," He agrees, lounging against one pilliar, smirking. "Why the hell'd I want to come back to this shithole for? Of course I wasn't here."  
  
That is established, then, though it is a fragile enough safety. I doubt that Ciato will leave his post, however, and Zozma certainly can be away before any attendants can catch sight of him. "How are things," I ask him, inanely.  
  
"Alive," he says, fierce, and that's certainly true enough, outside.  
  
"What have you come for?" I'm tired, all of a sudden, and fear my masks may slip. Weary, weary.  
  
He toys idly with the chain that hangs from his left wrist to his belt. "I heard that Orlouge had a traffic accident, and was curious."  
  
I smile at that; yes, the human girl is an object of curiousity and perhaps more, perhaps so much more. "She's still asleep. I wouldn't look in on her -- others often do and you might get caught."  
  
"I was surprised when I heard he only made her a half-mystic," Zozma remark, casual. Zozma does 'casual' badly. "Why'd he want someone who's still partly human to succeed him?"  
  
Oh, very subtle, Zozma. I opt for the letter of the truth, if not the spirit. "She'd lost too much blood -- unless he'd given his own blood, she would just have died."  
  
He scowls. "You know that's not what I meant."  
  
"Yes," I agree, and smile.  
  
Zozma pushes away from the wall and comes close. "What're you waiting around here for, anyway?"  
  
Hardly any point in lying; he knows whose place this is as well as I. "Ildon."  
  
"Thought so." He nods, once, perfunctory. "What did you want him to be angry about?"  
  
Of course, Zozma had heard that. "Anything," I say, and drawl, smiling, "He's just so /adorable/ when he's angry."  
  
The red-haired mystic snorts. "What do you see in him, anyway?"  
  
So many things I cannot say. What did I used to see in him? What do I think I could see in him in the future? Ah, but a question was asked and so that will be answered. I think of fragile roses stretching without trellises, I think of lowered unsmiling faces, I think of a cold arena of swordplay and a perfunctory 'Yes, my Lord'. "I see Chateau Aiguille," I tell Zozma. "Perhaps I even see all of Facinaturu in him."  
  
Zozma snorts again. "You /like/ this place?"  
  
If he does not understand, I cannot explain. "Either way, I see it."  
  
Zozma steps close, puts a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Zozma always did have a strong, steady grip. "Rastaban, you're being stifled in this place. I can get you out of it, the way I got out of it, if you want."  
  
This is perhaps the only offer I've ever heard Zozma give so willingly. He hated this place, will have sympathy for anyone who doesn't fit in to this place. Perhaps I smile too much; it's possible that that's how Zozma can tell.  
  
I appreciate it. I reach up to touch his hand, lightly, then take it off my shoulder. "Zozma. Changing myself changes nothing."  
  
"You're not meant for this," he says. "Fuck, Rastaban. This place will kill you."  
  
"As it is, it's killing everyone," I agree. "I'm not the one who needs a change."  
  
He catches on. This is unsafe, but it is also a conversation that never officially happened.  
  
"You crazy fucker," he breathes, amazed. "You crazy -- what the hell's in it for you? You plan to take over?"  
  
I shake my head, amused. "I may be a noble Mystic but I'm not of a lord class. No, no, not I. I cannot tell you."  
  
Zozma nods impatiently. "But then what's in it for you? Get out while the going's /good/, Rastaban, leave these asses to rot."  
  
I think of what I saw in Ildon's eyes when he rose to follow Orlouge, and shake my head, smiling. "We have our own paths. Mine follows Facinaturu."  
  
"Just don't expect my help," Zozma warns, and phases away. I have little doubt that he's phased directly to the sleeping half-mystic's room.  
  
My smile fades and I am cold again. Dangerous; I have risked too much. My only hope lies in the fact that Zozma would rather die than tell Orlouge anything like this.  
  
I hear a footstep on the stairs and turn. Ildon steps into the arena, though he doesn't seem to notice me.  
  
He's paler than usual, the gray tint of his skin darker, lips and eyes both bruised-looking from -- exhaustion? Loss of blood or energy? Despair? I cannot identify it.  
  
Stumbling a little, he pushes past me to place his jacket by a pilliar -- he is ignoring me. He breathes for a moment, standing there, then takes his sword and begins to practice.  
  
Accuse me, I want to shout at him. Be angry. Hate me. Tell me that you never signed up for this, when you asked for eternity it was with me, with the ghost that would come to your window and fall laughing onto your bed. Tell me you hate me for bringing you back to this place of wordplay and swordplay and foreplay, for making you just another toy, just another servant of a childish overlord who collects beautiful things and locks them away in cold, cold places. Tell me you never wanted this, tell me you can't forgive me. Just say something, just break the damn ice, Ildon!  
  
He's faltering in his sword patterns, apparently having trouble paying attention. He stops, breathes rhythmically for a few minutes, face blank, then goes back into his patterns.  
  
I want to shout, Wake up. I want to hit him because I know then that he'll hit back. But he won't hit with understanding; he will just fight because that's all he allows himself to be good for anymore. I want to break him, I want to heal him, as long as he just stops /festering/.   
  
"Ildon," I say, and he cuts his leg with a misjudged sword-swing. Hardly deep at all, but he crumples around it, holds himself, head bent, face impassive.  
  
"My fault," I say, and come over. He hasn't moved, so I put my arms around him too. He tenses, jaw clenching, but does not fight me. His face doesn't change except for the added tenseness; but he's shaking, ever so slightly. Exhaustion, I'm sure, and the pain pushing him over the edge. It will be easier for him to claim this later, at any rate.  
  
I wish he would cry. 


End file.
